Page 62 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘No,’ I say, grazing the cobblestones with the tip of my shoe. ‘I just thought it might be nice to have moretime together. Have a drink afterwards. There’s not a lot of time to chat, during an opera.’

Both parents can clearly see that despite being closer to forty than thirty, I am about three foot high right now. I briefly wonder if my jokes about influencer life might have made Jessica feel like I do right now.

My mother fixes an enthusiastic smile. ‘Absolutely, darling. What a good idea.’

I walk in silence with my parents from Covent Garden to Soho House. Even though it’s only fifteen minutes, I can feel myself losing the will to live. I try to tell myself that it’ll be better when we’re inside, but I know perfectly well this is only going to get better when their taxi arrives to whisk them home. Then, I’m struck with a genius idea. I look at my phone.

‘Sorry, guys, this is a work call,’ I say, pausing. They stand at the side of the street while I stride a few paces ahead and then dial the taxi company. I look back at my parents, giving them a wave and a smile as the taxi operator picks up. ‘I’ve got a booking to collect my parents and take them back to Cambridge in an hour, and look, I’m going to level with you, I’m having a genuinely terrible time and I’m wondering if there’s any chance you might come and pick them up early?’ Another smile back at my parents, who are giving side-eye to the picture of a meaty man on the front of the sex shop I’ve left them next to.

The operator agrees to send someone ASAP and at last, I feel like things are starting to look up. I miss the door twice because I’m distracted, but eventually we head in and settle at a table. The magic I was praying for, the nearly Christmas miracle where they were bowled away by thetasteful interiors and celebrity clientele, does not happen. But because it’s Saturday night, the music is blaring and it’s too loud for them, which admittedly would have been the case if it were any decibel level above zero, but even I’m struggling. My parents ask for a single gin and tonic each. I ask for the same and then excuse myself to the loo, at which point I catch up with the waitress and ask her nicely to please make mine a generous double. She smiles. ‘I’m the same when my parents visit,’ she tells me.

My parents and I make small talk through one gin and tonic, and then the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus starts in my head as I get a text telling me that the taxi has arrived. God bless Mick in the bookings office. I see them into the taxi. My father gives me a handshake and my mother bumps her bony cheek against mine. Then, unusually for her, she takes my hands in hers.

‘We’re very glad that you’re doing so well,’ she says. She stops, searching for words, despite being one of the first women ever to get a PhD in ancient languages. ‘Your happiness is paramount to me,’ she adds. She seems satisfied with this and closes the door behind her. My father has said about five sentences all night. If I ever manage to get Jessica pregnant, then I’m absolutely resolute that I won’t just allow silence to do the parenting for me. I get that they’re clever people, they like subtext. But maybe when it’s your kids, it’s okay to put the ‘I love you and I approve of your life choices’ thing in clear, bold-lettered denotation. I watch the car disappear and then I decide to go back inside, not ready to face going home yet. I find another table, this time on the terrace so that I can smoke.

‘Another G & T, please.’ I gesture to the same blonde waitress as she passes the table.

‘Double again?’ She smiles. She’s so painfully young. And it’s also fairly painful that I’m at an age where I notice that people are young.

‘Why not?’ I ask.

I sit outside and inhale a cigarette almost in one breath – I bought a packet on my way out earlier tonight in the knowledge that my parents are the only people in the world who drive me back into the loving arms of nicotine, even though I officially quit years ago. I sit, looking up, trying to remind myself that my parents are further away with every passing second and that next year we can just get cheap tickets and have done with it. I check my phone. No missed calls, no messages. By instinct I go to Jessica’s name, but hover my finger over it, unsure what to write. I want to tell her that if my snide attitude about the world of content creation has ever made her feel like I do right now, if I’ve ever behaved to her like my parents do to me when I talk about work, then I’m a piece of shit and I’m going to spend the rest of my natural-born life making it up to her.

It’s good that she didn’t come tonight. There’s no reason she should have to be bored stiff at the opera and patronised by my dad. But I can’t help wishing she was here, wishing that we were ploughing through a bottle of wine together, venting about my parents and maybe throwing in my siblings and the whole turgid lot of them for good measure. Maybe if I call her, maybe if she’s still in central with Grace, we could both get in a taxi, we could tumble into the house and find our way into bed, or stay out and sing karaoke in a terrible bar, or walk all the way homelike we used to when we were broke and wanted to save money on the Tube. I don’t really care what we do. I just want to see her.

I tap my screen and the phone rings. Weirdly, I can hear a phone ringing behind me. You’re not supposed to use your phone in here, though people do. I hear it ringing and crane my head. Jessica would have told me if she were here, surely? It’s not exactly unusual, she comes here a lot. I get up, following the noise of the phone to the other side of the terrace. My eyes catch her shoes first, panning up her body, along her legs, up her torso, to her tight black dress, her beautiful red hair, to her cheeks slightly flushed, to her expression. Horrified expression. Presumably horrified because sitting next to her isn’t Grace. It’s Clay.

Jessica

‘Hello, darling,’ I say, getting to my feet and kissing Jack lightly on the lips, the same kiss we’ve done every time we’ve said hello or goodbye for the last however many years. Grace pointed out once, a few years ago, that at some point during a grown-up relationship you stop kissing with tongues, and I’ve always wondered if that’s a meaningful moment, like it might hold the clue to whether a relationship will last. Anyway, this clearly doesn’t look good, so I try to keep my tone as light as possible. ‘How was the opera?’

‘Hello,’ Jack replies robotically. ‘It was fine. Thank you.’

‘I thought you’d still be with your parents. Weren’t you going for a drink afterwards?’

‘I thought you’d be with Grace. Because you told me that you were spending the evening with Grace.’ He holds eye contact and the challenge is clear.

‘Clay, pull up a chair for Jack,’ I say. I gesture to the waiter for another wine glass, hoping Jack will just sit down and not cause a scene because that’s the last thing we need right now, when we’re still very much in damage limitation mode. You’re not allowed to film or take pictures in here, but people tend to ignore that, and I’m sure we’re not famous enough that anyone has clocked us yet, but it only takes one person, as we well know from recent experience. Clay returns with a stool from another table. It’s much shorter than the other chairs, so if Jack sits on it he’s going to look like a gnome. I take it instead, and then sit with my chest at table height, trying to keep it together.

‘I was supposed to have dinner with Grace,’ I explain, pouring a glass of wine for Jack, reaching upwards to the table. ‘But there was some riot on the PTA – apparently one of the parents brought E-numbers to a bake sale and all the kids went mental. I don’t know the details but it’s big drama. So she cancelled.’ I’m talking way too fast now, and it’s making me sound suspicious even though I’m telling the truth. ‘So Clay and I thought we’d have dinner.’

He and Clay are staring at each other across the table.

‘I’m sorry about the American deal,’ Clay says. He’s polite, but I don’t think he’s stupid enough to think it’s a good thing to say right now.

‘Me too,’ Jack retorts. ‘Sorry to have lost you that fifteen per cent.’

Clay shrugs. ‘I don’t think I’m the one you need to apologise to.’

‘Good, because I’m not apologising,’ Jack says, getting to his feet. ‘I am, however, leaving.’

Clay rolls his eyes. ‘Going to throw another tantrum because you want to be writing your clever little nothing book instead of something which actually sells?’

I gasp. And in the seconds where I search for the right way to tell Clay that he’s out of order, Jack picks up his jacket, puts one arm in the wrong hole, realises, clearly panics at how stupid this is going to look and grapples to put it on properly.

Clay sniggers and Jack looks like he wants to hit him. He won’t hit him, obviously, Jack’s never hit anyone. The only bad school report he ever got lamented his lack of aggression in rugby. But there’s real hatred in his face when he looks at Clay.

‘I’m going home,’ he says.

---